


Sentimental

by Skyriia



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:08:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyriia/pseuds/Skyriia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spot Conlon doesn’t strike anyone as the type of man to care about the small things.  Remember the little things, sure, but actually care about anything than the cold stone of his street? Ha.  Well, most people don’t really know much about anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentimental

What do you mean what’s great about Brooklyn? Brooklyn is dirty, and cheap and puts a chip on the shoulders of even the youngest and innocent of kids. There is a certain dirt and grime that gets everywhere, under fingernails, in your clothes and even in your lungs, can’t count the number of kids I’ve seen cough up the stuff. Yet, there is something about it. Something beautiful and free. Something that no one who doesn’t live here could understand. Sure, a lot of us here are pretty much stuck, but I can guarantee a lot of them wouldn’t leave even if they had the chance. Some of us were just too at home here in Brooklyn, all too happy to live and die here. One of the most obvious examples being Spot Conlon, the leader of the Brooklyn Newsies and may as well the unofficial leader of all the street rats sleeping on these grimy stones.

And he loves it. 

The kid absolutely loves it.

A force to be reckoned with. He’s the reason that most of the boroughs don’t try and mess with Brooklyn. Also the only one out of all of us that actually was okay with Brooklyn becoming part of New York City. Said that good things would come of it. Respect. Power. Alliances. And he was right, certainly. Lining up with Manhattan is one of the best things we’ve ever done. But if you look real close. And I do mean real close. You’ll see there’s a little something there, something that you’ll marvel at and be confused by. Spot Conlon, infamous and powerful Spot Conlon, was a sentimental idiot. 

Yeah, you heard me right. Sentimental idiot. I’ll say it to his face. In fact, I have. Just in private, where no one can see or hear. I may not be the smartest but I don’t have a death wish I’ll tell you that. 

But anyway.

He’s sentimental. You wouldn’t know it unless you looked real close. And even then you wouldn’t have the full story. Only a select few of us that have known him since way before he became the King of Brooklyn knew even half the tale. And only two of us knew the full story, myself and an old friend. But that’s a story for another time. I figure it makes sense though, I’ve known the kid longer than anyone. If it wasn’t for me he wouldn’t even be in the Brooklyn newsies, much less lead them.

I suppose that’s one of the reasons knowing his story means as much to me as it does. Though I’ll never tell him that to his face. No, he’ll always be an idiot for it. Because you see, nearly everything that Spot Conlon owns has some sort of sentimental value to it. You think I’m joking? I’m not good at jokes. The boys don’t call me Stiff for nothing.

Let’s start with the small stuff shall we? Or what seems like it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, anyway. Like his suspenders. When I first met Spot Conlon he was around seven years old while I was—I wanna say around nine. Scrappy kid really. Met him down at Prospect Park getting soaked by some older kids who to this day I still don’t know. I wasn’t the one who intervened it was another who had just arrived to the newsies. Just as scrappy and a loud mouth. Before I even know what the hell was going on, the kid was running forward and knocking one of the others down into the dirt. Naturally, after that, I knew I had to get both of them out of there before the bulls came through. Picked both of them up by the collar and ran for it—after landing a few good hits on the offenders. 

Figuring the kid would be grateful, I half dragged him back to the docks. But no, all he does is yell and cause a scene. Saying that I should have let him finish what he started, that they had taken something of his. Something pretty important apparently because the boy stormed off before I even had the chance to say anything to him—like how ridiculous he looked in pink suspenders that didn’t work. 

So he comes back a few days later, even more bruised up but this time with a cane far too big for him tightly grasped in his small hands and a key hung around his neck. Oh, I’ll get into those later let’s stay focused on one item at a time alright? Now, here comes this kid in way too big of clothes, a smart aleck attitude and a busted lip and he’s asking for a place to stay after being thrown out of his first hiding place. Our leader at the time, Slippery wasn’t too keen on another loud mouth kid joining. As it was Short Stuff (a temporary name), the kid that saved his ass was already a handful. 

The kid didn’t cry, knowing him better now that doesn’t surprise me, but back then a lot of her were surprised. And then he says—I’ll never forget this—“You’se guys take care of street rats right? What’s the difference ‘tween them and me? Or are ya just liars?” I don’t know a single sole that had the guts to do that to Slippery and to this day I think it was his show of guts that got him a place in the barracks. Right next to my bunk I should add.

Hardly a surprise that Spot—as he demanded to be named—idolized Slippery. He went anywhere Slippery went and tried anything Slippery did. Rather swimming or shooting with a slingshot he would do it all. And Spot was a good learning. By the time he was eight he was already up to fifty papes a day and could go toe to toe with kids around his size and a little bigger. He was still pretty small and always had that ridiculous cane and key with him. The object of many fights and also half the kid’s savings making sure it was always in good condition. 

What surprised the hell out of a lot of us was how Slippery actually grew to really like the kid. Almost like a mentor he showed Spot the ropes, took care of him and looked to him as a young birdie and adviser. And on his tenth birthday he gave Spot a pair of new suspenders, bright red and obviously from months of savings. Spot had lost his old suspenders a while ago in a fight with some kids from Queens. I think that was the first time in my three years of knowing him that I saw Spot cry, almost missed it too, eyes just barely watering up as he took the present. Kid has worn those suspenders every day since then and does everything to make sure they don’t break like his old ones. 

A lot of people think that him wearing those is a show of power. That he wants to look like the person that draws all the attention and has a higher status than anyone else. But anyone that knew Spot when Slippery was around knew better. Slippery was the big brother that Spot always wanted—needed and he would take care of anything the older male gave him. There were other objects certainly but the suspenders were the most important. At least, next to the shirt. 

Yes a shirt. You’ve probably seen it. That dark blue shirt that he wore to the Rally, and the protest at The World Building, yeah that’s the one. It was originally Slippery’s. See, Slippery wasn’t much of one for dressing up or any of that even if most of us tried to at least have an old jacket. To him, a nice shirt would suffice. He wanted to stand out. Said that him wearing fancy clothes shouldn’t be the reason people listen to him. I think Spot follows the same kind of ideals really. But not everyone did. Like I said, Brooklyn is a dirty and grimy place, especially if you’re not careful. 

Slippery in the last year of his life had his fair share of enemies. We had never gotten along with The Bronx kids. Something about them always rubbed us the wrong way. Been at war with them for a while you could say. If only Slippery had let on how bad it had gotten then maybe we could have done something about it. He had gotten into a fight with the leader of The Bronx, trying to settle things once and for all. Slippery won, but in the process broke his leg. A pretty bad break too, I remember it far too well being one of the guys that carried him back to the lodging house. 

Naturally, all of us pooled our money together and managed to get a doctor to come and take a look at him. Set us all back for weeks actually. But Slippery refused to be treated until he talked to Spot—who throughout this whole ordeal hadn’t said a word. That point seemed to be a blur. One second Spot was in the room, talking in a low voice with Slippery and the next the doctor was in there trying to fix the leg. But it was too quiet. Too quiet. Then suddenly it was too loud. Spot was screaming something fierce, demanding to know what happened. We all bust in the room to find the doctor trying to console the Spot who had Slippery’s blue shirt clutched in his hands and Slippery on the bed—dead. Marrow from his bones got into his heart or something. Don’t know. Spot won’t ever talk about it. Don’t blame him. 

He won’t even wear the shirt now. Except for very special occasions. The rest of the time its wrapped up in some nice paper he got from a sympathetic woman down the street. In a way, I think Spot feels responsible for what happened. Not sure why, nothing the guy could have done to stop it. What could an eleven year old do really?

Spot disappeared for several weeks after that, almost a full month. No one bothered to go after him, knowing he would take Slippery’s death the hardest out of all of us. And Brooklyn fell into ruin. The Bronx wanted a piece of the turf as did every other borough even if this wasn’t even in their city at the time. Of course all the older kids were arguing, trying to lead together at first and then practically inciting civil war. Everyone likes to think they know best.

That’s when the strangest sort of thing happened. Spot returned. But he wasn’t the same kid that had left, almost like he was wearing a mask, he rarely smiled and he was always so damn serious. And he had a mission. Take over Brooklyn. Who the hell ever heard of a kid taking over Brooklyn? He was only eleven for God sakes! But I’ve never seen anyone so serious. And Short Stuff—or rather Alleycat as she was called now, was behind him all the way. Ridiculous. That girl hadn’t showed interest in any of this business until now. But he had a plan. And I somehow got looped into it. Imagine that.

It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that much. It took nearly a full year to get everything in order, to calm everyone down and establish Spot as the new leader. He grew even more serious, almost stoic and took care of everything with an iron fist, much like Slippery had. The difference between Spot and Slippery though, was the fact Spot was a good foot shorter but carried himself like a seven foot man. He didn’t need to upset when someone insulted his size because he didn’t act his size. And no one ever did it twice. 

On his twelfth birthday, when everything was finally settled and he had taken over that was the first time I ever saw him wear Slippery’s blue shirt. With that grey cap, cane, shirt and suspenders I had to admit he definitely looked like the leader of Brooklyn. I didn’t know at the time that he’d gain the nickname of King of Brooklyn but it really shouldn’t be surprising. If there was anyone that was born to lead it was Spot Conlon. 

And that is when we met Jack Kelly.

Or rather Spot introduced us to Jack Kelly.

Turns out him and Spot gotten themselves into a pinch and ended up in the refuge during the time that Spot disappeared. Got close to each other real quick, almost like best friends. Then, one night, managed to escaped together and it was a few days after that Spot returned. Now here was Kelly, a wide eyed kid with a pamphlet for the West. He stayed with us for a while, sharing the same bed with one of the younger kids despite protests. You couldn’t tear those two apart even if you wanted to. Add in Alleycat and it was a trio that seemed inseparable. Except Jack was obsessed with going West and wanted the others to join him. There was promise of adventure and fun and wonder, but Spot didn’t want any of that. He didn’t want clean air and starry skies, he wanted Brooklyn and that was it. Jack took it pretty hard and eventually left Brooklyn to head for Manhattan. 

When word got out that Jack was captured and put in the refugee again, I think Spot blamed himself. He does that a lot. Puts the weight of the world on his shoulders as if he’s the only one that can bear it. Therefore, it was no surprise that when Jack broke out and became leader of Manhattan Spot was behind him all the way. Providing silent support after they reconciled their disagreement. 

Probably why he took Jack’s betrayal during the strike so damn hard. What do you do when one of your best friends who promised to never turn his back on you again—turns his back on you again? Still say it was a miracle that Jack didn’t die by Spot’s hands. And I can honestly say that if Jack hadn’t come himself to deliver that paper to Spot he wouldn’t have rallied up the Brooklyn kids for the last push again The World Newspaper. I’m telling you the kid is a sentimental idiot. He’ll never let go of old friends unless he has to. Even if they completely betray him. But I suppose Kelly didn’t, that kid still has to work to get into my good graces though I’ll tell you that much. Idiot kid, can’t see what’s right in front of him. That’s the difference between him and Spot I think. Spot sees too much and Cowboy sees too little. 

Still say the kid needs to let some things go.

Now I know you’re wondering about the cane and the key that I said I was going to talk about later right? In all honesty I didn’t learn this until well after the strike and I’m not even sure if it’s the real story. Spot has a habit of telling half-truths to people he doesn’t want to know something. Doesn’t do it out of spite, he’s got problems trusting others. But I figure if he was going to lie about this, he wouldn’t have made up a story like this one. It’s a little too soft hearted for the enigma he’s created over the years. Guess that’s the point.

A lot of people like to think that Spot grew up on the streets. That he ran away from some orphanage or grew up in the refuge until he suddenly busted out. Probably thought it involved fire and killing a bull or two. Of course Spot won’t quell those rumors either. Kid probably feeds them too. I’ll never understand his need to have some ridiculous legend attached to his name. Especially knowing the truth.

His mother and father were Irish immigrants that came over just a few years before he was born. With them was his grandfather on his mother’s side and his wife. His grandmother didn’t survive the journey but Alleycat says Spot’s got a picture of her hidden somewhere. Wouldn’t surprise me. His father also died not too long before his birth, Spot’s only understanding of him lies in a journal that he’s only skimmed through and what his mother told him as a kid, most of which he’s forgotten. But he hasn’t forgotten his mother and his grandfather—don’t talk about them much, but you can tell just by the way he takes care of that cane and that key.

A lot of people like to say the key means he’s got the key to the city, silly girls like to say it’s the key to his heart. Hogwash. That key goes to one place and one place only. Or at least he says so. It’s the key to his old home you see. This happens to not be too far from the lodging house. Probably fate or something he ended up coming here. He says the story goes like this:

One day, a couple of weeks before I found him, he was out on a walk with his grandfather. Nothing special, just a walk they took every weekend when the weather was nice. It was Spot’s turn to be in charge of the key, his grandpa said he was getting old enough to take care of it. That he would have to be the man of the house soon. Words that boy probably thinks about too much. 

Their walk was interrupted by the fire carriage racing past and turning to find smoke nearby the two made their way back to their small home as fast as they could with his grandfather’s condition. Didn’t matter. Place was burned to a crisp—all that hot, dry summer air, and his mother didn’t make it out. Spot still doesn’t know why or how it all happened, and I don’t think he’s too keen to figure it out. I’d like to say that his grandfather stuck around, helped raise him up, but if he did I wouldn’t even know the kid probably. And, well, he died not long after. Apparently of a broken heart, his old bones not able to take a life on the street and with no money to pay for the doctor there wasn’t much either could do. 

Tore the kid’s life out from under his feet in a matter of weeks.

In a way, I’m glad I ran into him and Alleycat was stupid enough to join in on the fight he had gotten himself in to. Who the hell knows what would have happened to Brooklyn if he wasn’t around. Can’t imagine anyone else running it now. I think that’s the way he wants it. To be so much a part of Brooklyn that he’s the image people see when they think of home. I know that’s what some of the younger ones think. Not that I’d ever tell him that. Or that he’d ever agree.

Would probably soak me for it actually.

Sentimental idiot.


End file.
